


Into Temptation

by the_diggler



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Alternate Universe - Historical, Anal Play, Angst, BDSM, Blasphemy, Bottom Dean, Comeplay, Flogging, Improvised Sex Toys, Jealous Castiel, M/M, Masturbation, Oral Sex, Orgasm Delay/Denial, PWP, Priest Castiel, Religious Guilt, Rimming, Sadomasochism, Smut, Sub Dean
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-10-31
Updated: 2015-10-31
Packaged: 2018-02-23 07:44:41
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 3
Words: 11,299
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2539895
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/the_diggler/pseuds/the_diggler
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>In a small provincial chapel in the 18th century, a young lord obsessed with the writings of Marquis de Sade comes to Father Castiel for help.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> It's officially Halloween on my side of the world folks! Usually at this time of the year I add to my [Halloween in Bondage verse](http://archiveofourown.org/series/33300), but I really needed a break from that this year. So you get this S&M instead! Just another old idea I've been lugging around for years, but never had a chance to get to until now. Happy Halloween!
> 
>  **WARNING** : I have no idea about 18th century culture and religious practices so prepare for inaccuracies and misrepresentation that might be considered blasphemous. Also, I use the term 'Sadist' loosely here, under the assumption that since the Marquis de Sade only _just_ published his works, the differences between 'sadism' and 'masochism' are not yet clearly defined or commonly known at this time. (In case you didn't know, the term 'Sadism' was coined from the Marquis de Sade's name).

 

  
“Forgive me Father, for I have sinned.”  
  
Castiel blinks in surprise at the voice that comes through the woven screen of his Confessional. There are few houses of wealth in the surrounding provinces, and of those, most that visit their small chapel are women. But this is a voice Castiel hasn’t heard before – deep, and rough around the edges, as many in the country are – but still too cultured to be anything other than aristocracy. Castiel tries not to reveal his surprise as he recites his blessing.  
  
“Tell me of your sins,” he prompts.  
  
There is a long moment of silence from the other side of the screen, fraught with hesitation, before the man finally speaks.  
  
“Father… Have you heard of the Marquis de Sade?”  
  
Castiel blanches. “I have,” he replies, trying to keep his voice even. Of course he’s heard of the infamous Marquis. He’d heard of a great many dark and disturbing things when he was living in the capital. And because of the libertine lifestyle much of the aristocracy indulged in, most of the things he’d heard were of a sexual nature. De Sade’s writings had become a frequent topic since their recent publication. But Castiel hadn’t expected to hear such things out here in the country.  
  
“Father,” the man speaks again, more quietly this time, “I’m afraid I might be one of those… _Sadists_ … as they are being called now. Please, I need your help.”  
  
Castiel heaves a quiet sigh. He hadn’t expected this, but it’s not as if he can turn this man away. It is his station to listen. To provide absolution. “Have no fear,” he replies soothingly. “Tell me, what makes you think this?”  
  
“When I learned of de Sade and his writings recently in my travels, it reminded me of certain… _incidents_ in my youth. For example, when I was a boy, I greatly enjoyed being spanked by my nursemaid. In fact, I often went out of my way to misbehave so I would be punished.”  
  
“Is that all?” Castiel asks. It simply sounds as if the man enjoyed stirring mischief as a boy. It’s certainly far from definitive evidence of Sadism.  
  
“No, there’s more,” the man replies quietly.  
  
“Go on.”  
  
“When I was older, I had a tutor named Alastair. He knew a great variety of ways to punish my misbehaviour. But once, when he bent me over his desk and whipped me with a ruler… I became aroused.”  
  
“I see,” Castiel replies. _That_ is a little more worrying.  
  
“And now, ever since I’ve learned of de Sade…. I can’t stop thinking about it. I can’t stop thinking about being whipped, and whether it would arouse me. The very thought of it does. Tell me, Father, am I damned? Am I just filth in a man’s body?”  
  
“We are all filth in the eyes of the Lord, my son. Only through prayer and repentance can we hope to be absolved of our sins,” Castiel intones. “Recite the Our Fathe--” A loud bang resounds on the wood of the confessional, startling Castiel.  
  
“I need more than your absolution, Father! I need your _help,_ ” the man hisses in desperation.  
  
Startled, Castiel crosses himself out of habit. “Very well,” he says once he has caught his breath. “There are some methods I know of that may help cure you of this affliction.”  
  
At his old church in the capital, it was usually one of the more senior priests who administered such therapies, but now, out here, unfortunately the responsibility lies with Castiel. He doubts if any of the other priests here in their small provincial chapel have even heard of such things.  
  
“Given the right conditions, the punishment of the flesh can be a powerful tool of cleansing and communion. In fact, I myself have experienced great joy and closeness to God through the Discipline. But it is the joy of penance. Perhaps, through proper exposure, we can purge the body of its inappropriate sexual desires and make way for true contrition and penitence,” Castiel explains.  
  
“Exposure?” the man echoes, breathless with hope. “I see.”  
  
“It will be difficult. For us both. And there is no immediate guarantee of success,” Castiel warns him. He remembers some men and women returning over and over again for private sessions with the priests in the capital, and how much strain it was for the priests as well as the supplicants – how dishevelled and exhausted they were afterwards.  
  
“Yes, of course, Father. I understand,” the man replies. “But I am willing to try.”  
  
“Then I will expect your return after supper,” Castiel instructs. “I will wait for you in the antechamber.”  
  
“Yes, thank you, Father,” the man replies enthusiastically.  
  
“Eat sparingly before you return. And until then, spend the day in prayer. Recite the Our Father. Prepare yourself in mind and spirit so as to better purge the body of its desires.”  
  
“Yes, Father.”  
  
“In Nomine Patris, et Filii, et Spiritus Sancti,” Castiel recites his final blessing.  
  
“Thank you, Father. I will see you tonight,” the man says, exiting the confessional.  
  
~  
  
Castiel sits in the antechamber behind the main chapel, sipping slowly from a cup of wine as he waits. The other priests have returned to their cottages for the night, so the chapel is empty, silent, save for the low crackling of the fire, keeping the cold country drafts at bay. Castiel picks up the flogger resting across his lap – the Discipline _,_ as it is called – its handle a comfortable and familiar weight in his palm. He does not understand the kind of deviance that derives sexual arousal from such a tool. In fact, it is this very tool he uses to _punish_ himself when he experiences inappropriate thoughts or bodily reactions. It is through self-flagellation that Castiel purifies himself those desires.  
  
Back in the capital it was, at times, problematic. The confessions he’d heard, the things he’d read… sometimes he had to go to such extremes of purification, it took many days to recover. It was part of the reason why he’d been sent to the countryside, in the hopes that a less stressful environment might improve his health. It has worked so far. He feels well-rested and mentally prepared to help with this particular sort of problem, although he’s never personally administered this kind of treatment to another before.  
  
“Father Castiel?” A knock sounds against the door. “Are you there? It is Dean Winchester, returned at your bidding.”  
  
“Lord Winchester,” Castiel echoes in surprise.  
  
But of course.  
  
Of the few high-born families residing in the area, Samuel Winchester is probably the only lord that attends service and takes confessional regularly, and the young man often speaks of his older brother Dean. Through young Samuel, Castiel knows that Dean travels often for the family business, and recently Samuel has spoken of his excitement over Dean’s return.  
  
“One moment,” Castiel answers, leaving the Discipline on the chair as he stands to open the door. He doesn’t know what kind of man he expects to meet on the other side. Something of a brute maybe, from the tales young Samuel had shared with him – plain and oafish, for all their family’s good breeding.  
  
He doesn’t expect to open the door to the most breathtaking young man he’s ever seen.  
  
As many in the country are, Dean is dressed simply, without the frills and powdered wigs typical of his high-class counterparts in the city. His dark blond hair is simply tied at the nape of his neck, the long strands curling naturally at the ends. There’s no sign of powder or rouge on his face either, and his skin glows with the warmth of many days spent in the sun, riding on horseback. And yet, his features are more delicate than many a noblewoman Castiel has seen – lips full and pink, eyelashes naturally curled to perfection, skin soft and smooth with lingering youth – even the freckles smattered across his nose are a testament to the beauty of youth, whereas most others would try to hide such blemishes under layers of powder.  
  
Castiel is grateful Dean’s travels are mostly overseas, far from the city. He shudders to think of what the men there would do with such a one as this.  
  
“Please, come in,” Castiel says, stepping back to allow Dean entrance to the room.  
  
“Thank you for seeing me, Father,” he says, forest-green eyes fixed on Castiel with a heaviness that lends to the sincerity of his words, seeming to indicate true gratitude.  
  
“Of course,” Castiel nods, swallowing down a sudden dryness in his throat. “I hope you have managed to pass the day as I’ve advised?”  
  
“I did my best, Father,” Dean nods. “Though I must admit, it was a bit difficult escaping my brother.”  
  
“Ah yes,” Castiel chuckles softly. “Young Samuel is quite fond of you. He speaks very highly of you.”  
  
“He speaks with you about me?” Dean asks in surprise.  
  
“Frequently,” Castiel replies, smiling.  
  
“Oh,” Dean replies, somewhat breathily, his cheeks reddening prettily with embarrassment. Again, Castiel finds himself grateful for the lack of powder that would have covered up the sight, and he has to force himself to look away, clearing his throat to break the long silence.  
  
“Can I offer you a drink?” he asks, indicating the small cupboard nearby. “Some wine perhaps?”  
  
“Yes, thank you,” Dean replies. “I did not have any with dinner, as I wasn’t sure what you wished of me.”  
  
Castiel smiles again at the report, impressed by Dean’s forethought and dedication. “One drink to calm the nerves will not do any harm,” he replies, pouring Dean a cup from the bottle on the shelf. It is not a bad vintage. Probably not as rich as the wine Dean is accustomed to, but certainly better than the ceremonial wines used for mass.  
  
Dean accepts it gratefully, and Castiel gives him a moment to collect himself before they start. But as he watches Dean drink, Castiel forgets to drink from his own cup as well, distracted by the sight of Dean’s adam’s apple, bobbing along the stretch of his throat as he swallows. Dean manages to drain his entire cup, uninterrupted, before speaking again, calling Castiel back to attention.  
  
“Well, Father,” he says, looking up through his lashes as he lowers his cup, “How shall we begin?”  
  
It takes another moment for Castiel to shake himself out of his trance, moving to take their cups and leave them on the shelf before turning to the back of the room. Along the wall there, is the small altar Castiel and the other priests use to prepare their vessels and vestments for mass, though at the moment most of its surface has been cleared.  
  
“Please remove your coat and vest, and then come here. You can leave your things on the chair beside you,” Castiel instructs, clearing away the last items on the altar and placing them in the closet nearby.  
  
Dean nods, leaving his hat on the seat and commencing to remove his outer layers, draping them over the back of the chair. Castiel tries not to watch while he folds away the altar cloth, but he can’t help but notice the tremble in Dean’s hands as he disrobes.  
  
“Should I remove my shirt as well?” Dean asks, fingers hovering over the strings at his neck.  
  
“That won’t be necessary,” Castiel swallows, returning to the chair to pick up the Discipline, “You will feel this through your clothing.”  
  
Dean gulps at the sight of the flogger, eyeing the long cords of knotted leather that hang from the wooden handle.  
  
“Please face the altar. You may use it to brace yourself,” Castiel instructs.  
  
Dean takes a deep breath, nodding and doing what Castiel has commanded, leaning over to grip the stone edge of the altar.  
  
“Now, clear your mind of all thought, and open yourself up to penitence. Use the punishment of your flesh to help you focus. But you will see that here, in a house of God, you will not find any sort of… _sexual_ distraction.”  
  
“Yes Father,” Dean replies, voice trembling in his nervousness.  
  
“Are you ready?” Castiel asks, letting the flogger swing through the air.  
  
Dean nods, unable to even speak anymore, clenching his eyes shut as he tenses for the first blow.  
  
Castiel swings.  
  
The first strike is an easy one. When it lands across Dean’s back, he doesn’t even cry out. He only gasps a little bit, his eyes still firmly shut tight.  
  
But the second strike has momentum behind it now, and when it hits, Dean shouts, eyes flying wide at the impact.  
  
Castiel strikes again, and again, each blow drawing cries from Dean’s lips. But he stands them, knuckles turning white as he grips the edge of the altar for support.  
  
Castiel is impressed. The young Lord is taking to it very well. If Dean hadn’t told him otherwise, Castiel might not have even suspected this is his first time. Castiel begins to think that perhaps it will only take this one session to cure Dean of his affliction after all.  
  
Perhaps it is Castiel’s overconfidence that does it then, that causes his vigilance to falter. erhaps what results is its own punishment for his pride. But that is when one of Castiel’s strikes goes awry. Instead of striking Dean across his back, his aim errs, and the blow lands lower, across Dean’s buttocks.  
  
And perhaps it is Castiel’s mistake, but perhaps, if it had been with someone else, it wouldn’t have mattered. But when Castiel strikes Dean’s rear, the sound Dean makes then is… more than just a cry of pain. It’s also a whimper, a moan, and his entire body seems to shudder differently than before. The reaction makes something inside Castiel tremble as well, giving pause, and he finds himself breathless at it.  
  
That is when Castiel realizes the state Dean is in – pupils blown dark, and the front of his breeches… _full_ with arousal. Dean turns his glazed eyes on Castiel then, gasping to catch his breath and licking his dry, _full_ lips… A growl escapes Castiel’s throat as he swings again, harder than before.   
  
Sickness. It is Dean’s sickness that makes him so.  
  
“Recite the Our Father,” Castiel commands.  
  
“Our Father, who art in Heaven,” Dean begins, and Castiel continues to strike him, squarely on the back, making sure not to miss anymore. “Hallowed be thy – _ah_ – name – _ah!_ ” Dean recites, the words broken by his cries of pain.  
  
But instead of Dean’s cries becoming louder, as Castiel expected they would, they begin to lessen, until they are nothing more than breathy gasps in between the words of the familiar prayer.  
  
“Lead us not – _unh_ – into temptation – _oh!_ ”  
  
Castiel would like to hope that it is because the prayer has given Dean focus, that he has begun to transcend the punishment of his body – as Castiel sometimes experiences when he takes the Discipline to his own flesh. But as the prayer comes to an end, Castiel sees it is just the opposite. Dean is even more aroused than before.  
  
“ _Ahhh_ … _Amen_.”  
  
“Again,” Castiel orders.  
  
“Our Father – _Ah!_ ” Dean begins again, gasps turning to cries once more as Castiel whips him even _harder_. Hard enough to slice through the thin fabric of Dean’s shirt. But now, to Castiel’s dismay, Dean’s cries are thick with ecstasy, and not the kind that comes from the joy of holy communion.  
  
“Again!” Castiel barks, striking hard enough to draw blood.  
  
Dean throws his head back at the impact, releasing a filthy cry into the air. “Our Father – _Unh!_ – Who art in Heaven – _Ohhhh_ ,” he begins once more, and this time Castiel recites the prayer with him, hoping to lend his strength to the words – though he finds his voice strangely thick and even more rough than usual.  
  
Alas, it is to no avail, as Dean’s cries reach a fevered pitch. They barely get three lines into the prayer before it is all over.  
  
“Thy kingdom _COME!_ ” Dean shouts, and his entire body seizes, spasming with unintended completion.  
  
Castiel is stunned, unable to do anything else but watch as Dean’s climax takes over him, suddenly and so _thoroughly_. And afterwards, when Dean collapses to the ground, Castiel is still frozen, transfixed by the sight of him – cheeks flushed, lips bitten dark, chest heaving… a wet splotch darkening his pants where he has spent himself… When Dean licks his lips then, Castiel’s eyes are helplessly drawn to the movement, and he realizes, with horror, where Dean is looking now.  
  
Castiel is aroused.  
  
So aroused, it’s showing through his cassock.  
  
He drops the flogger in shock, staring down at himself in dismay. Suddenly, the throbbing between his legs is impossible to ignore, overwhelming and near paralysing.  
  
There is only one thing for it.  
  
His hands are already pulling off his robes before he even makes the conscious decision to.  
  
He must take the Discipline to himself. Immediately. It is the only thing he knows to do when such a bodily reaction… _arises_.  
  
Except… except… when Castiel has divested himself of his robes, he does not take the handle of the flogger again. His hands _keep_ pulling at his clothes, moving of their own accord, unbuttoning his pants to let his desire free. Before he can stop himself he is closing his fist around it, and a deep groan fills the air, which Castiel barely recognizes as his own.  
  
Castiel staggers against the altar as his hand begins to move, pumping his length in a tight grip. The sensation is overwhelming. It is so _good_. But it is so _wrong_. He is a man of the cloth. He should not succumb to such the sins of the flesh. He should be above this. He should be setting an _example_. Dean is _watching him_ , for pity’s sake.  
  
And yet, though Castiel knows all this, he cannot bring himself to stop. Cannot even bring himself to move away or pick the Discipline up off the floor, as he so desperately should. He finds himself clutching at the rosary around his neck, as if it might give him strength. He clutches it so tight, he feels the beads _bruising_ his palms.  
  
Suddenly, Castiel struck with a frantic idea. Pulling the rosary off his neck, he wraps it around his member, and though he can’t stop pumping himself, the beads of the rosary now make it increasingly difficult, every stroke edged with pain.  
  
Yet, the pleasure persists. It _increases_. And even amidst his consternation, Castiel’s hand stubbornly manages to find a rhythm, enslaved by the sensation. Soon he is dripping his arousal, and it catches on his fingers, wetting the beads and smoothing their glide over his skin. He gasps and groans, throwing his head back and letting the sounds escape past his lips into the air, utterly helpless to stop them.  
  
Then suddenly, he feels another sensation. The grip of another hand, clenching around his thigh.  
  
Castiel’s eyes fly wide, startled at the touch. And when he looks down, he sees Dean kneeling before him, head tilted up towards him and lips parted to catch the drops of Castiel’s desire in his mouth – as if receiving the Eucharist during mass.  
  
The parody of it is near blasphemous. And still, Castiel is helpless to stop it. He is entranced by the fallacy of devotion on Dean’s face, the way Dean seems to _radiate_ with it in the candlelight, illuminating every dark curl of his lashes and glistening against the wet drops on his lips.When Dean licks them then, pink tongue swiping across the drops of Castiel’s arousal to take them in his mouth, Castiel can stand no more. The sight undoes him, pushing him over the edge into oblivion, his entire body racked with the tremors of his climax.  
  
When Castiel opens his eyes again, he sees Dean still kneeling in front him, face striped with Castiel’s completion, and still greedy for more, tongue reaching for the white ropes of it dripping down the end of Castiel’s rosary.  
  
Castiel’s knees finally give out, and he collapses back against the altar, sliding down until he lands on the floor, cock still hanging out of his pants, rosary defiled. He cannot even make a move to cover himself as he gasps to catch his breath, staring numbly at Dean in utter disbelief.  
  
With a sigh, Dean crumples, sitting back on his haunches and looking helplessly at his hands.  
  
“It is confirmed then,” he finally says, resignation in his voice.  
  
“What is,” Castiel asks, breathless and bewildered.  
  
“I am a Sadist,” Dean answers. “And now, you are one too.”

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This chapter was inspired by [this NSFW priest!Cas fanart at tumblr](http://the-diggler.tumblr.com/post/101389521989/). Future chapters will remain plotless, but smut-filled ;D


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

>  **WARNING** : Seriously guys, if you missed the warnings at the beginning of the fic, please go back and take heed. Actually, if you're religious at all, I'm going to go one step further and warn you now - it's highly likely certain things in this fic will offend you, so just back away now and take the first chapter as a oneshot. There isn't any real plot to this anyway, it's just smut!
> 
> And please remember that the use of the term 'Sadist' here loosely applies to any behavior/practices related to the Marquis de Sade's works. They were only first published in the 18th century, so the term 'masochism' did not exist yet.

 

  
Castiel is not a Sadist.  
  
He simply cannot be.  
  
He is a servant of the Lord.  
  
His soul must remain clean, and pure.  
  
He cannot mire himself in such… _filth_.  
  
And yet, it is as if a damn has been opened within him, constantly flooding him with thoughts of Dean, and _overwhelming_ him with desire and arousal. He cannot stop thinking about the way Dean looked as he gazed up at Castiel from his knees, the high flush on his cheeks and the perfect rapture in his expression, green eyes glistening in the firelight through the curl of his lashes. Cannot stop remembering the way Dean’s body bowed and arched and trembled in both pleasure and pain, the way his lips parted around cries of ecstasy and desperate prayers… the way they parted to receive Castiel’s spend. And he cannot stop imagining what it might have been like if Dean had just come closer, dared to spread those lips on Castiel’s flesh, how it might _feel_ , how Dean might look then. He cannot _stop_.  
  
He cannot even seek to purify his body of such urges in the usual manner. The very sight of the Discipline arouses him as well, yet another reminder of Dean, and so trying to use it only arouses him further. He even has to go so far as to strap himself when he attempts to use it, in order to ensure he derives no pleasure from it.  
  
His only hope is that with time his memory of that night will fade, and the lust it inspires in him will lessen. He prays for the strength to endure until then, but even that comfort is tainted. He cannot find his rosary. Not since it fell from his fingers that night.   
  
It’s as if God has abandoned him.  
  
And as if his torment wasn’t already unbearable, Dean begins attending mass every Sunday. How is Castiel supposed to forget when Dean appears every week to remind him? Gazing up at him from where he kneels in the pews, lips moving gently around the words of a prayer, the pink of his tongue as he takes communion – every act, no matter how innocent, reminds Castiel of that night.  
  
He supposes it’s inevitable when Dean eventually seeks Confession again. But when he does, Castiel is stricken with despair at how readily he responds to the sound of Dean’s voice, haunted by the memory of Dean’s gasps and cries.  
  
“Forgive me father, for I have sinned.”  
  
Castiel swallows hard. Perhaps he only imagines that Dean sounds as breathless as Castiel feels.  
  
“What is your offence?” he prompts, his voice cracking from the dryness in his throat.  
  
“Father, I need…” Dean trails off, sighing heavily. “I am to be married soon,” he says quietly.  
  
Castiel bites his tongue, waiting for Dean to continue. There is no joy in Dean’s words, and Castiel senses there is more.  
  
“Lady Braeden is a good woman, but how can I marry her when I still have these… _urges_? I cannot possibly think to ask her for the kind of things that--” Dean chokes off with a frustrated noise. “Father, can we please try again?”  
  
Castiel heaves a weary sigh. Surely God is punishing him. How is he supposed to resist when Dean comes to him _here_ , asking for help where Castiel cannot say No or turn him away?  
  
“Father Castiel?” Dean calls softly in the silence, and Castiel heaves a resigned sigh, unable to ignore the uncertainty and misery in Dean’s voice.  
  
“Come tonight,” he finally says. “Prepare yourself as before.”  
  
“Yes! I will!” Dean exhales in a rush of relief. “Thank you, Father!”  
  
“In Nomine Patris, et Filii, et Spiritus Sancti.”  
  
“Until tonight, Father!”  
  
~  
  
Castiel spends the remainder of the day fortifying himself for the night to come. He comes to the realization that perhaps it is not a punishment, but a test. A second chance. If Castiel can help purge Dean of his perverted desires, then perhaps Castiel will be redeemed in the eyes of the Lord.  
  
But when Castiel finds himself transfixed by the naked planes of Dean’s shoulders, hypnotized by the subtle shift of muscle underneath and the long, sloping trail of his spine… Castiel wonders if helping Dean will count for anything if ultimately he cannot purge his own desires as well.  
  
“Is this alright, Father? I do not wish to ruin another shirt,” Dean explains, turning around.  
  
“Of course,” Castiel replies, guiltily averting his eyes. He is not fast enough, though. Dean’s chest – that smooth expanse of skin, those dark rosebud nipples, the light trail of hair down his stomach – the sight is already seared into Castiel’s memory. The desire to touch is so strong, so overwhelming, that Castiel wants to _scratch_ , and claw, and _mark_ that beautiful flesh, _punish_ Dean for the ugly lust he inspires.  
  
Castiel takes a deep breath, clenching his fists until his fingernails pierce into the flesh of his palm, and the pain clears his head of such obscene thoughts. Dean may be young and beautiful, like no other Castiel has seen, but he is still to be treated with respect. Though Samuel may complain of his brother as many younger siblings do, he also loves and esteems his older brother, describing him as a loyal caretaker as well as a clever man, in many ways aside from book-learning, straightforward and true of heart in way that is sadly lacking in the current aristocracy.  
  
Even if Castiel is beyond redemption, Dean, at least, deserves a chance to be saved. A chance to cleanse this filthy taint from his immortal soul.  
  
“Please take your position,” Castiel says, gesturing towards the small altar along the back of the room. Dean’s eyes widen minutely at the words, seemingly frozen for a moment, before he nods, hurrying towards the altar to brace himself.  
  
“Do you wish me to… recite?” Dean asks over his shoulder, breathless from his rush.  
  
“Yes, please,” Castiel replies.  
  
Dean nods again, taking a deep breath. “Our Father,” he begins, voice trembling over the words.  
  
Castiel inhales a steadying breath of his own, taking a moment to listen and draw strength from the familiar prayer. The words wash over him like a cool stream, soothing the burning itch under his skin and settling him enough to do what he has to. Picking up the Discipline from where he left it on his chair, he steps towards the altar.  
  
The tremulous murmur of Dean’s prayer is broken with a gasping cry at the first sting of leather, the muscles under Dean’s skin rippling as they clench in shock, and Castiel is mortified to hear a similar gasping sound escape his lips at the sight. It’s a long moment before Castiel can compose himself enough to make another strike, and when he does he clenches his eyes shut, so as not to see the fine reactions of Dean’s body again.  
  
But again, it is too late. Once was enough. The image is burned into the backs of his eyelids, and Castiel does not think he’ll forget anytime soon.  
  
And of course, when Castiel closes his eyes, it only allows his other senses more focus. Every gasp and hitch in Dean’s breath seems to shudder across Castiel’s body like a physical touch, every building cry stirring him deep within.  
  
It’s not long at all before his body begins to respond. And when he opens his eyes again, it is clear that Dean has been long-aroused already.  
  
“Stop,” Castiel growls lowly, turning away. As Dean goes silent behind him, he measures his breaths, willing himself to calm down. He has his strap in the pocket of his pants, and he reaches inside to finger the leather, considering whether to put it on. But as he hears Dean shifting behind him, he remembers that this night is for Dean’s soul, not his own.  
  
Castiel turns back around. “Lord Winchester--”  
  
“Please, call me Dean, Father,” Dean says, looking over his shoulder.  
  
“As you wish… Dean,” Castiel says, testing the name carefully on his tongue, and he wonders if the flutter he sees in Dean’s lashes then is just a trick of the candlelight. “Have you… ever been strapped?” he asks.  
  
Dean hisses in sharply at that, and the way his pupils flare is definitely not a trick of the light. “No,” he answers breathlessly.  
  
“Very well,” Castiel says, but when he speaks his voice cracks with thickness, and he tries not to wince at the sound of it. He quietly clears his throat before he tries to speak again. “Please undo your pants and lower them so I may… restrain you.”  
  
“Yes, Father,” Dean responds quickly, hurrying to undo his buttons. Castiel turns his back again, respectfully waiting until Dean is finished. “I’m ready, Father,” Dean says, all too soon.  
  
Castiel steels himself. When he turns again, he is prepared to keep his eyes politely trained away as much as he can… but he is stunned by the sight that greets him, frozen and unable to look away.  
  
Dean hasn’t just lowered his pants, he has removed them completely. He is completely naked, save for his stockinged feet, bent over the altar and _presenting_ himself. He is _glorious._  
  
It’s the only word Castiel can think of at the sight – the way Dean’s spine dips into the perfect curve of his rear, smooth and full and unblemished, the thick strength of his thighs, the muscled arc of his calves, visible even through his delicate white stockings – _glorious_.  
  
Castiel feels himself trembling as he approaches, and his hands shake as he reaches around Dean’s waist. He is nearly pressed against Dean’s body, and the smell of him is intoxicating – sweat and earth and arousal – and Castiel can _feel_ the heat of Dean’s skin, even through the thick protection of his cassock.  
  
And yet, all that is nothing compared to feel of Dean in his hands. He tries to be as quick as possible, but the hot weight of Dean’s hardness presses insistently against his palm, as if begging to be grasped. And though the feel of it scorches him, he cannot help but let his fingers linger, tracing the velvet of Dean’s skin around the leather under the pretence of testing the strap’s tightness.  
  
Dean struggles to hold down his moans, his breaths quick as he bites down on his lip, and Castiel finds himself wanting to sooth his thumb across the abused flesh. But when he finds himself halfway reaching towards Dean’s face, he yanks his hand away, remembering himself and stepping back altogether.  
  
Again he has to turn away, gulping down great lungfuls of air. He’s grateful he at least had the presence of mind not to rub himself against Dean’s thigh. But it was a near thing.  
  
“Recite,” Castiel barks angrily, frustrated with himself for being so weak. For letting such base and sinful thoughts and desires run rampant within him. When he finally turns around again, he is prepared for the sight that greets him this time, and wastes no time resuming his strikes, punishing Dean’s newly exposed flesh for its temptations.  
  
He supposes he shouldn’t be surprised when Dean’s gasps become more frenzied, his voice thickening with heightened arousal under the onslaught. For a Sadist such as Dean, to have his bare bottom flogged, while simultaneously being prevented from reaching completion, it must be the sweetest of torments.  
  
Castiel’s only option is to flog Dean until the pain overwhelms the pleasure of it, _truly_ punishing Dean’s flesh, though Castiel has no idea where that threshold may be. Even as he strikes Dean hard enough to draw blood, Dean’s enthusiasm only intensifies, and Castiel does not wish to do permanent damage.   
  
Alternately he could test Dean’s endurance, strike him for longer instead of harder, but he’s afraid he doesn’t have the stamina to withstand such a trial himself. Not with the way Dean moans begin to escalate, the way his body begins to writhe under the assault of his flesh…  
  
And then, in between one gasp and the next, Castiel hears it. The soft, familiar clack of wooden beads.  
  
Castiel follows the sound to its source, and his breath leaves him in shock at what he sees.  
  
As his body has been arching and undulating, Dean has spread his legs even wider, and in doing so, he has exposed his entrance – and the location of Castiel’s missing rosary.  
  
Dean has had it buried inside himself, this entire time. Has been squeezing and clenching it within his rear, the whole night. Has stuffed himself with the entire length of beads, save for a few – just enough to leave the cross nestled comfortably between his cheeks. And now that he’s parted his legs, it dangles between them, swaying back and forth and glistening in the candlelight with whatever sort of lubrication Dean has used to put them there.  
  
It is a blasphemy Castiel cannot abide. That is his _rosary._ Not only is it a precious source of comfort for Castiel, but it is a _tool for prayer_ , a _holy symbol_ , _God himself_ resides in the wooden beads! Castiel strides forward in a fury, grasping the small cross in his hand, and yanking the beads from Dean’s hole.   
  
But as he pulls, Dean throws his head back with a sharp cry, his entire body racked and quaking with the violence of its response. And afterwards, when Dean’s knees buckle underneath him, and he collapses to the floor, Castiel sees the tell-tall ropes of white, dripping off the altar.  
  
Dean’s orgasm.  
  
One he should have been prevented from having. And yet, Castiel had underestimated him again. Underestimated the utter responsiveness of Dean’s body, to _any_ stimulation, good or bad. Hadn’t even stopped to think that Dean might find pleasure… _there_.  
  
Castiel is horrified. That Dean’s soul has been so thoroughly soiled with the filth of Sadism that he might desire the sin of Sodomy as well? It’s abhorrent. Repellent. Did he think that using Castiel’s rosary _there_ would perhaps cleanse him of that sin?   
  
Was it still slippery with Castiel’s spend when he put it in?  
  
A sob strangles in Castiel’s throat as he finds himself, _again,_ groping blindly for the fastenings of his pants, desperate to alleviate the heat of his ready flesh. When his back meets the cold stone of the chapel wall he slides gracelessly to the floor, having nowhere else to go but down.  
  
By the time he lands, his hand has found a steady rhythm, pumping his weeping length with a mind of its own. He simply cannot control nor stop himself.  
  
So he must punish himself.  
  
His flogger lies on the ground, not far away, and even as he reaches for it he doesn’t stop pumping himself, so far gone is he. But of course, if the Discipline has done little for him before, it is near pointless now, with Dean sprawled on the ground in front of him, naked and panting, come dripping down his thighs. Castiel doesn’t pull his strikes, but he barely feels them through the cloth of his cassock in any case, only the hot throbbing need of his cock, and the sweet slick friction it finds in his fist.  
  
Castiel groans, losing himself in it. He tries to clench his eyes shut against the sight of Dean, but of course, that doesn’t help either. In a way it is worse, as it lets Castiel’s imagination linger where he hadn’t allowed his eyes to, taking in the dark flush of Dean’s skin, the bitten fullness of his lips, the milky shine of his spend… behind his eyelids Castiel tracks the slow drip of it down Dean’s leg, dipping his finger into it, and perhaps even… _tasting._  
  
But what’s far worse is, with his eyes closed, Castiel doesn’t know Dean has made his way across the floor, crawling closer with much the same thoughts in his mind. Not until he feels Dean’s hands gripping his thighs, bracing himself as leans down to lick at Castiel’s cock.  
  
A shocked cry punches out of Castiel at the brief, wet touch. His entire body freezes, hand stopped on his length, flogger hanging limply in mid-swing, eyes wide and unable to do anything but watch as Dean repeats the tease of his tongue, lapping at the arousal weeping from his slit. Then Dean opens his mouth, and sucks.  
  
Castiel cries out again, his body coming back to life with frantic movement, back arching and eyes rolling at the warm suction engulfing his member.  
  
It is far, _far_ better than anything he imagined.  
  
“No! What are you doing?” Castiel gasps, panicked. “Stop that!” he hisses, lashing the flogger across Dean’s shoulders.  
  
Dean cries out, the sound garbled in his throat by Castiel’s cock, and the vibration of it sends Castiel reeling again. “Stop, stop!” he gasps, still swinging the Discipline, but each strike only seems to spur Dean on, his moans thickening around Castiel’s length as he takes it even deeper.  
  
Then suddenly, Dean pulls off, panting hot puffs of air against Castiel’s spit-wetted flesh as he catches his breath. “So _empty_ ,” he moans.  
  
Castiel’s eyes fly open at that, and he is greeted by the sight of Dean kneeling between his legs, reaching behind himself and filling himself with his fingers, as his dark and dilated eyes beg Castiel for _more_. He returns his lips to Castiel’s erection, swallowing him down with a moan that tells Castiel _exactly_ what Dean wishes to fill the emptiness with.  
  
No.  
  
He cannot.  
  
And yet, the way Dean is _begging_ him, _pleading_ with his entire body… It seems almost cruel to deny him.  
  
Castiel cannot give Dean what he wants, but perhaps he can give Dean what he needs.  
  
In one movement, Castiel knocks Dean’s hand away from his rear, and shoves the wooden handle of the flogger into Dean’s opened hole.  
  
The tool is already ruined for him anyway. _Castiel_ is already ruined. If it is a sickness that makes Dean this way, then surely Castiel has already been infected.  
  
The flogger pushes in easily, the wood smooth like silk from years of handling, and Dean cries out, a wet gurgling sound around Castiel’s cock as his body arches and bucks at the penetration. Dean doesn’t even have the opportunity to catch his breath before Castiel begins to thrust the handle, renewing Dean’s cry before it even has the chance to abate, and before long Dean is wailing in one long continuous howl.  
  
Castiel frantically tries to hush him, afraid the sound will carry to the cottages nearby and wake his fellow priests. But Dean is so far gone he pays Castiel no heed, slack-jawed with pleasure and eyes glazed as he mindlessly writhes back onto the Discipline’s handle. In desperation, Castiel grabs onto Dean’s hair with his other hand, pulling Dean’s head back to thrust his cock into Dean’s mouth again.  
  
Dean chokes in surprise, but it does the trick. While his moans are still loud in his throat, at least now the sound doesn’t escape past his lips, muffled by the meat of Castiel’s flesh. In fact, if possible, Dean’s moans become even _more_ impassioned, now he’s filled twice over, and his mouth works on Castiel even more ardently than before.  
  
Soon it is Castiel’s cries that become worrisome, gasping shouts that he has no control over, eyes rolling as he grips Dean’s hair tighter and fucks into that needy, _wet_ mouth. His orgasm rips through him like lightning, and his whole body seizes with his fist clenched tight in Dean’s hair, flesh deep in Dean’s throat and pulsing hot spurts of forbidden ecstasy.  
  
Afterwards, Castiel’s body falls lax, like a puppet with its strings cut, and all he can do is lay there in a heap on the cold stone ground, watching the sight before him.  
  
And what he sees is Dean falling back to the ground, in a mirror of Castiel’s position, chasing his own release. One hand flies over his cock as the other wanders the planes of his chest, searching out a dusky aureole to pinch and fondle with his fingers. And in between gasps Dean licks at his lips, tongue seeking out the smatter of come that’s dribbled down his chin. _Castiel’s_ come. Oh God.  
  
Still, Castiel cannot look away, utterly bewitched. When Dean’s fingers leave his chest to roam downwards, Castiel’s eyes follow every inch of their snaking trail across Dean’s skin, down to the turgid head of Dean’s cock, nearly purple with the need for completion. The leather strap Castiel had bound him with is gone, whether it has slipped off or Dean has removed it, Castiel does not know. But when Dean spreads his legs, Castiel sees what Dean’s really reaching for – the flogger, still embedded deep inside his body, which is clenching and squeezing around the handle with every squirming movement of his hips.  
  
Dean grabs it, his other hand still pumping his erection, and begins thrusting the handle in and out of his rear, fucking himself with it as Castiel did for him before. It doesn’t take long after that. Dean groans and writhes on the ground, silhouetted by the fireplace behind him, the light of it giving his skin an almost ethereal glow as his orgasm shudders through his body, splashing across his skin like a benediction.  
  
Castiel is overcome.  
  
He does not understand.  
  
If this is wrong, if this is a sin, _how can it be so beautiful?_

 


	3. Chapter 3

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> It's Halloween again! Sorry for the ridiculously long wait on this last chapter, but this year hasn't really been conducive to writing smut :( I may try to clean this up a bit more later, but I just wanted to post on time for now :)

 

  
“Forgive me Father, for I _cannot stop sinning_.”  
  
A sob leaps into Castiel’s throat at the sound of Dean’s voice.  
  
“I cannot stop. _Nor do I want to_.”  
  
Castiel quickly shoves his fist into his mouth, stifling his cry of pain as he presses hard on his thigh, the metal prongs of the cilice there digging into his skin.  
  
His old tools are no longer of any use. The Discipline, the strap, his rosary, even prayer itself bears no respite, his thoughts entirely consumed with _Dean_. So his only recourse has been to start wearing a cilice – a chain of metal around his skin with prongs turned inward, strapped with enough pressure to cinch the flesh and create constant discomfort. If he moves too quickly or accidentally stumbles into something, the stab of pain teaches a fast, sharp lesson in constant vigilance.  
  
The ever-present pinch of metal against his thigh has been the only distraction from the ever-present sickness of his thoughts. But now, with Dean _here, again…_ Castiel wants to dig the cilice so far into his flesh that he bleeds, that he may rid himself of the fever burning in his veins, or at least that the pain may grant him coherence long enough to speak.  
  
“… _Dean_ ,” he croaks, and immediately snaps his mouth shut, cursing himself. That wasn’t what he’d meant to say at all. But he cannot even remember what he’d meant to say. It’s as if Dean has stolen his very words as well, along with his thoughts, his mind, his _soul_ … He is ruined. Cursed. _Damned_.   
  
“ _Father_ ,” Dean whimpers softly, his voice so close, his face must be pressed against the screen of the confessional. “I cannot stay here any longer. I fear my only option is to… abandon this country all together.”  
  
“ _What?_ ” Castiel gasps. “Where will you go?” he blurts, stricken.   
  
“Overseas. To the colonies. There is much opportunity there, and I already have contacts, means to start a new life,” Dean explains.   
  
A cold dread begins to press on Castiel at the thought of Dean’s leaving, sinking into the pit of his stomach and pressing on his lungs until he can’t seem to catch his breath.   
  
“I cannot marry Lady Braeden,” Dean continues. “You see, I haven’t been entirely honest with you Father,” he confesses. “The truth is… I’m in love with a man.”  
  
“ _…what?_ ” Castiel whimpers, a small and broken sound ripped from his lungs.  
  
“I cannot stop thinking about him,” Dean plows on, unheeding. “And I touch myself all the time, thinking about it, about _him_ – taking myself in my hand, thrusting my fingers inside myself – but sometimes my fingers simply _aren’t enough_ ,” Dean groans. “I must resort to using candles, the handle of my riding crop – anything I can find!”   
  
Castiel clutches the beads of the rosary at that, once again in its rightful place around his neck. He had cleaned the rosary and the Discipline as best he could with soap and boiling holy water, though the urge to simply throw them into the flames was strong. But he just couldn’t bring himself to do it. Instead he often found himself staring at the objects, for long minutes at a time, pondering what it was in Dean that made him desire to seek pleasure with them.  
  
Now he knows. It is not the objects themselves, but the desire of another man.  
  
“Oh God, Father. The _things_ I would l let him do to me,” Dean moans, and Castiel hears movement on the other side of the screen then, the rustling of cloth. With a sinking dread in his gut, he recognizes the rhythmic sound of skin upon skin. The sound of Dean’s hand on his own flesh. “I would let him use my mouth, my ass – I would _beg_ him to sodomize me, even though I _know_ it is a sin!”   
  
Castiel chokes down another sob, reaching down to press against the cilice. But his aims errs, and he finds himself pressing between his legs instead, palming the aching hardness there.  
  
“And how can I ask that of him, when to even _touch_ such filth as I am would tarnish the purity of his soul?” Dean adds quietly.   
  
Castiel whimpers. Suddenly the rosary around his neck feels like it’s choking him, the beads bruising his palm in his too tight grasp.  
  
“I am damned, Father. I am damned for even _thinking_ it. But I know, that even when my soul burns in Hell, _I will still want him_.”  
  
Castiel can take no more.   
  
He jumps to his feet with a growl, throwing open the door of the Confessional and hurling himself out of it, nearly pulling the door on Dean’s side off its hinges in his haste open it. Dean yelps in surprise, hastily re-fastening his pants, but Castiel grabs Dean’s wrist away, dragging him to the antechamber with rough yanks on his arm. It’s well after mass, so the church is quiet and empty, but even if it wasn’t Castiel would not care. He is consumed with fury and fire, and it _demands_ to be slaked.   
  
He throws Dean into the antechamber before him, bolting the door shut before stalking towards the altar. “Undress!” he orders as he crosses the room, grabbing the half-empty bottle of ceremonial wine, and drinking from it with deep, desperate gulps. Then he grabs the edge of the altar cloth, and yanks, with one vicious pull, chalices and cups and cloths falling to the ground with a clatter.  
  
When he turns around again, the look on Dean’s face is startled, wary, confused and a bit afraid – but Castiel can no longer think to care, because Dean is completely, perfectly naked, skin flushed and glowing in the firelight, cock straining at full mast and _glistening_ with his arousal.   
  
Castiel strides forward, grabbing the back of Dean’s head, and crushing their lips together. There is still wine in his mouth, that he’d forgotten to swallow when confronted with the sight of Dean’s naked flesh, and he fills Dean’s mouth with it, groaning into the violent press of their lips. Dean drinks it greedily, sucking on Castiel’s tongue with needy moans, probing deep inside Castiel’s mouth for every last drop.  
  
“Get on the altar,” Castiel rasps, chest heaving as he tries to reclaim his breath.  
  
“… _On_ the altar, Father?” Dean asks, confused.  
  
“Sit!” Castiel barks, pointing at the altar.  
  
Dean jumps in startlement. “Yes, Father!” he answers, hurrying across the room to comply.  
  
It is much warmer in the antechamber compared to the chapel, the heat of the fire almost stifling. But the stone of the altar is must still be cold, as Dean hisses sharply when he slides his bare skin over it, squirming as he sits. This small reaction, however, only serves to fan the fire within Castiel, his length throbbing with urgency inside the confines of his pants. He raises the bottle to his lips once more, drinking deep, but the taste of Dean still lingers on his tongue, the shape of Dean’s mouth still burning hot against his lips. He doubts anything could erase the memory now. Castiel growls, slamming the bottle down on the edge of the altar as he picks the altar cloth off the floor, ripping it into strips.  
  
“Arms up,” he orders, removing the heavy cross above the altar and exposing the large hook used to hang it on the wall. Without a second thought he drops the cross on the remnants of the altar cloth, heaped on the floor, and ties the strips he’s torn off onto the hook. Dean raises his arms, wrists hand just below the hook, and Castiel ties the hanging ends of the strips to them, binding Dean to the wall.   
  
With his wrists tied the way they are, Dean is forced to lie back across the small altar, and he automatically lifts his legs to accommodate the position, planting his feet on the end of the altar to brace himself better. But the position also forces his legs to splay open, displaying himself for Castiel, and Castiel can’t help the pleased rumble that escapes his throat at the sight. He is so pleased by it, he picks the rest of the altar cloth up off the floor, tearing the remains into two last strips, slinging them under Dean’s knees and tying them to the hook as well, keeping Dean in that position.  
  
In order to reach the hook, though, he has lean closely over Dean’s body, in between the inviting splay of those legs. And as he does, Dean strains up towards him, desperately trying to press himself against Castiel, to kiss his lips again. It is then that Castiel realizes how aroused he is, when he finds himself nudging – no – _rubbing_ between Dean’s legs, unable to resist the wanton invitation of Dean’s body.  
  
Snarling, Castiel rips himself away, only to be confronted with the sight of Dean’s entrance, open and grasping as he squirms his hips, begging to be filled. Grabbing the wine again, Castiel splashes it across the clenching pucker, as if he could douse the fire of its desire. But Dean only moans in response, his body collapsing at the sensation, limbs going lax as the cool liquid drips down his heated skin.   
  
For a long moment, Castiel is transfixed, arrested by the sight of the dark fluid disappearing into the pink mouth of Dean’s hole, then dribbling back out of it, curving a slow trail down the mounds of Dean’s rear. But soon Dean begins to squirm again, already greedy for more. _So wanton_.  
  
With another growl, Castiel yanks his rosary off his neck, striding forward to stuff the beads into that sinful maw. They go in easily, all the way to the end of the cross, as if Dean had fingered himself open just before. With a start Castiel remembers Dean’s confession, realizing that’s exactly what he must have done, thinking of _that man_.  
  
“This is what you desire?” Castiel huffs angrily. “To have your hole filled? Fucked? _Used?_ That wicked, _filthy_ hole?”  
  
“Yes, Father! _Yes!_ ” Dean wails, writhing around the beads.  
  
Castiel finds himself tearing his hair at the response, stalking towards the closet where the Discipline is stored. In the next instant he is lashing at Dean’s skin, raining blows down Dean’s thighs as Dean arches and screams, every cry lewd and shameless with pleasure. Arousal begins dribbling down the length of Dean’s cock, the skin of it pulsing dark and thick, jutting straight to the heavens between Dean’s legs. Even the dark rosebuds of Dean’s nipples look painfully tight, and Castiel cannot help but strike them also – left, and then right, and then over again, until Dean is arching his chest into every blow, startled cries choked in his throat. It’s as if he does not feel the pain at all – no – it’s as if he feels _any_ stimulation, no matter what kind, as pleasure. The harder the stimulation, the more pleasure.   
  
It is the sickness, surely. A fevered delirium caused by the infection in Dean’s mind and body. It is almost as if Dean is possessed. The way he thrashes on the altar, the almost _inhuman_ sounds he makes, it certainly reminds Castiel of the cases he’s read of. But no demon would be able to set foot on holy ground, let alone withstand the touch of a holy relic. Not so intimately. Even as Dean tosses and writhes, the cross of Castiel’s rosary still hangs between Dean’s legs, swaying and jumping with every movement – as if mocking Castiel for its desecration.  
  
Anger rising within him again, Castiel reaches for the cross, grasping it in his hand to yank it out. But as soon as he begins to pull, Dean’s entire body goes taut with a choked off gasp, and Castiel suddenly remembers what happened last time.   
  
He stops pulling. Instead, he begins pushing, slowly, carefully, reinserting what little he’s pulled out. And with every bead that disappears inside him, Dean’s body spasms, soft hitching gasps escaping his slack-jawed lips.  
  
Suddenly, Castiel realizes - if Dean does not respond to pain as he should, then perhaps Castiel should use pleasure as his tool instead.  
  
When all the beads are inside Dean’s body once more, Castiel begins to pull them out again. One by one. So very slowly. Every now and then pushing a few back inside, before pulling them out again. And all the while, he continues his strikes with the Discipline, all along the insides of Dean’s thighs, down to his bottom. He cannot strike Dean with as much force at this close distance, but as he plays with the beads in Dean’s anus, Castiel can read the success of his efforts written in the tight lines of Dean’s body, the wide-eyed and gasping shock on his face. Dean is in a _torment_ of sensation.  
  
This is the way.   
  
Castiel stands back with a satisfied huff, surveying his work with a smirk. But as he leaves Dean there, squirming and whimpering helplessly on the altar, Castiel’s own aching hardness makes itself known again, throbbing insistently within the confines of his pants, and he finds his throat painfully dry.  
  
“Hold this,” Castiel orders, shoving the handle of the flogger between Dean’s lips as he reaches for the bottle of wine. Dean obediently bites down on it, his mewls becoming all the more desperate for being gagged, and Castiel finds he simply cannot resist, reaching down to play with the rosary again as he drinks his fill – never too fast, not enough to bring Dean to climax – just enough to prolong his torment.   
  
For a moment, he considers strapping Dean again. It would be useless, though, Castiel knows. But as he fingers the little piece of leather in his pocket, he thinks perhaps it might be better to use it on himself instead. He is so _achingly_ hard. And he is not ready for this to be over yet.  
  
Decision made, he parts the robes of his cassock, undoing his pants to release his length. Dean’s eyes go wide at the sight of it, and as Castiel hastily straps himself, Dean’s mewls become frantic, his cock visibly twitching between his legs.  
  
Growling, Castiel grabs the Discipline from Dean’s lips, and strikes it.   
  
Dear _God_ , the sound Dean makes then – a strangled, wailing thing that is suddenly loud compared to his gagged whimpers before. He strikes it again, and again, to more sobbing groans, and Dean’s cock becomes even more turgid than before, blood rushing to his length until it is almost purple with it. And when Castiel strikes Dean’s balls, drawn close and tight to his body, Dean’s cock jumps and twitches until Castiel cannot help but strike it _again_.   
  
And of course, now that Dean’s body begins to react more forcefully, the rosary between his legs begins to dance again, taunting Castiel. He does not have the patience to play with it anymore. He reaches down to grasp it again, and as soon as it’s free of Dean’s body, he lashes the Discipline across that cursed hole as well.   
  
If he thought Dean’s cries were loud before, now they are _agonized_ things – wild, animalistic howls as Dean bucks and rears on the altar, legs kicking and flailing with every strike. And yet, even as the skin of Dean’s entrance begins to turn an angry red, it still gapes and clenches, wanting more.  
  
Madness. Whatever sickness has infected Dean, the fever has surely driven him to madness.   
  
Or perhaps Dean has been bewitched, cursed, that his body should respond so.   
  
More likely, he was sent to bewitch Castiel. Because suddenly, he can feel the begging clench of Dean’s entrance, against the very skin of his cock! And when he looks down, he finds himself rubbing against Dean again, smearing his arousal across that hot and swollen entrance. As if his body has been compelled.  
  
But again, what evil could stand the touch of a holy man? If that is what Castiel is anymore. How can he pretend purity when he has craved the touch of Dean’s skin? Known the pleasure of Dean’s mouth? How can a rosary be sanctified when it has been buried in the depths of Dean’s sinful body? And how can a church be sacred when the very air has been filled with Dean’s pleasured screams?  
  
A sob wrenches out of Castiel’s throat as he rips himself away, shoving the Discipline into Dean’s mouth again. He grabs blindly for the bottle of wine, but instead of drinking from it, he finds himself pressing the lip of the bottle to Dean’s still-wet entrance, shoving it deep into that greedy furl.   
  
Dean takes it with almost no resistance, his cries muffled through the Discipline as Castiel grinds the bottle deep. The last of the wine sloshes into Dean’s channel, and when it is all gone, Castiel begins thrusting the bottle, in and out of Dean’s body, the movement eased by the liquid vintage.  
  
It doesn’t take long after that. Almost immediately Dean begins thrusting back onto the bottle, eyes rolling so wildly that Castiel can only see the whites of them. He is far past being able to make noise anymore, gagged though he is, panting around the Discipline’s handle as he furiously works his hips to take more. He has lost himself completely. Before long, his climax begins to burst from his cock, from no other touch than the bottle buried within him.   
  
And before Castiel knows what he’s doing, he’s leaning down to capture it in his mouth, closing his lips around Dean’s beautiful, spitting cock, and swallowing as much as he can. It’s salty, and bitter, but Castiel cannot stop himself, cannot stop licking every last drop from Dean’s soft, warm skin.   
  
When Castiel finally raises his head again, it is to the sight of Dean’s flushed cheeks, lips full and dark around the handle of the Discipline, and eyes so dilated they are almost black under his curling lashes, glistening thick with tears.   
  
He is _so_ beautiful.  
  
Castiel pulls the bottle from Dean’s body, hurling it into the fire. As it shatters against the stone of the fireplace, so does the last of Castiel’s sanity. Because one second he is watching the slow trickle of wine from between Dean’s legs, and the next, he is falling to his knees between them, lapping at the spill from Dean’s hole.  
  
He knows what he’s doing is filthy, wrong. But Dean was made for this. To feel pleasure. To _be_ pleasured. And be it sickness or curse or bewitchment that has made Dean so, it has finally driven Castiel to madness as well, because he simply cannot see the sense in denying Dean any longer.  
  
With a groan, his lips close around that dribbling furl, tongue soothing that hot and swollen skin. He wants to drink from the chalice of Dean’s body forever, wants to kneel and worship every inch of his beautiful skin and fill his ears with nothing but the prayer of Dean’s rapturous moans. Why would God create such beauty, such joy, and call it evil? Why would He deny His children such bliss, charge them to resist? And if _Castiel_ cannot resist, what man could? None.   
  
Not even this man that Dean has fallen in love with.  
  
A sob rises again, unbidden in Castiel’s throat, and he has to pull away, heaving great gulps of air to force it down. Dean is not _his._ Dean’s heart belongs to someone else. There will be no forever.   
  
But the way Dean strains towards him, cock full and ready again, eyes pleading for more… Castiel is _so tired_ of denying himself. In this moment, here, Castiel has Dean’s body, splayed open and begging, for _him_ , and him alone. If he cannot have Dean, then he will have this one moment.   
  
Pulling himself together, Castiel stands, smoothing his palms down the insides of Dean’s thighs as he steps between them. Dean’s whines become frantic when he feels Castiel lining up against him, thrusting his hips up to try and take him in his hole, still loose and dripping with wine and Castiel’s saliva. But Castiel forces himself to thrust slowly. So slowly. Taking in every agonizing sensation. He wants to remember every moment of this perfect ruination, carry it with him to the fires of Hell and hold it close for the rest of eternity.  
  
He nearly cries with the beauty of it, the velvet heat enveloping him, the way Dean’s walls grasp and milk at Castiel’s throbbing member. He expected Dean would be screaming by now, thrashing and wailing in incoherent ecstasy, but instead Dean stills himself, keening softly around the worn wood of the Discipline’s handle. He looks like he might even be trying to form words, but if Dean truly wanted to speak he could simply drop the handle from his lips. More likely, the movements of his mouth come from imagining another cock in his lips instead, sucking it, licking it – what insatiable lust. At the very least, the effort of holding the handle seems to be keeping him present, watching Castiel with wide eyes as he gently works his hips to meet Castiel’s deep, careful thrusts.  
  
But the way Dean _watches_ him… Castiel is accustomed to the respect and gratitude of his parishioners, the companionship of his brothers and sisters, but never has anyone looked at him with such sheer _adoration_. Never has anyone made Castiel feel so alive and alight with such a fire of passion and desire and _sensation_. How could _any_ man withstand that look and not swear his undying devotion and… _love_.  
  
Castiel sobs, openly now, unable to hold back any longer. If he is doomed to love Dean, to the eternal pits of Hell, then he is going to make damn well sure that Dean forever remembers the man who first took him. He begins thrusting harder, faster, grabbing onto Dean’s hips for desperate purchase. And as his movements become more forceful, Dean begins to thrash in his bonds again, straining to meet Castiel’s thrusts. His moans grow louder, building to a crescendo, until finally, Dean cries out, the Discipline tumbling from his lips as his climax overwhelms him.  
  
Castiel cannot withstand the onslaught – the euphoria of Dean’s moans filling his ears, the writhing grasp of Dean’s body on his cock, the sheer, shocked ecstasy in Dean’s eyes – it breaks him apart, completely, thoroughly, helplessly, endlessly, spilling every last drop of himself as he cries out Dean’s name.  
  
There is nothing left of him afterwards. Nothing but madness and rage and the hot brand of sin, splashed across the front of his cassock, dripping thick and white from between Dean’s legs.   
  
Castiel tears at the strips of cloth binding Dean to the wall, shredding them in his fists and setting Dean free, though to do so makes him ache with despair. But when he is done, he finds himself still ripping, still clawing, at the cloth of his own robes now, filthy and ruined forevermore. Wrenching the tattered remains from his body, Castiel heaves them into the fire with an anguished roar.  
  
“Father?” Dean’s voice comes from behind him, scared and uncertain, and Castiel whirls around in rage.  
  
“Don’t call me that!” he wails. “No one can call me that anymore, least of all myself! I have defiled myself! I am made unholy!” he cries, collapsing to his knees. He wraps his arms around his body, trying to hold himself together as he shivers in his underclothes, broken and bare. “Tell me who is this man? I beg you, I must know! This man who for loving has driven you to such madness, as surely as you have driven me to mine?” he sobs. He wants to know this man’s name, this man’s _face_ , how it looks as he roasts in the pits of Hell, right alongside Castiel.  
  
“Fath-- _Castiel_ … Surely you must know?” Dean replies softly. “It has always been you.”   
  
Castiel laughs.   
  
He laughs and laughs, until his laughs turn to sobs. Until his chest begins to ache and tears stream down his face. Until Dean approaches him, carefully, cupping his face in his hands, and leaning down to kiss his lips.  
  
It is nothing like Dean’s kiss before, frantic and desperate with hunger and need. It is a gentle kiss, a reverent kiss, though no less claiming. With it, there is no more madness, no more rage or despair. Only Dean’s lips, and Dean’s _love_ , its clarity like a ray of light, breaking through the heavens.  
  
“Come away with me,” Dean whispers, still cradling Castiel’s cheek against his palm as he gazes down at Castiel. “We will start a new life together, in the colonies, you and I,” he says.  
  
“Yes,” Castiel replies without hesitation, to everything Dean promises. “Yes. Yes!” he repeats, over and over like a prayer, worshiping Dean’s skin with kisses from where he kneels at Dean’s feet. He does not care where they go, or what plans need to be made, he only needs to hear one thing, one promise above all…  
  
Castiel reaches down into the opening of his pants, unfastening the cilice from his thigh. Its pain has been long forgotten, lost in the pleasures of Dean’s body. Now, he no longer has need of it.   
  
But it can serve a new purpose.  
  
Castiel reaches for Dean again, binding the cilice around Dean’s strong, naked thigh.   
  
“As I am yours, you will be mine,” he says, caressing the ring of metal around Dean’s flesh.   
  
“Yes,” Dean promises.  
  
Castiel nods, satisfied.   
  
Though they both may be damned, for all eternity, at least they will be damned together.

  
_~ fin_

 


End file.
